The Front Porch Prophet

“What is this?” A.J. had asked Maggie some years back after his first and last mouthful of the substance.

“Estelle calls it Indian pudding,” Maggie said. “She says it is an authentic Pilgrim dish.” Her spoonful had stopped in midair pending the outcome of his taste.

“I think she must have used canned Indians,” A.J. said between gulps of cider. The flavor was insistent and would not leave him.

“Well, it is hard to get fresh ones this time of year,” was Maggie’s reply as she carefully laid a slice of bread over her portion. Since that time, Estelle had always been assigned a dessert.

Once the bill of fare was in order, A.J. and John Robert set their sights on the banquet hall. The Folly was scrubbed, waxed, and buffed. Curtains were washed, starched, and ironed. Windows were cleaned inside and out. Woodwork was oiled, and Granmama’s silver was polished. By a week before the event, the house was perfect.

“It’s going to be great!” A.J. told Maggie.

“You’re obsessing,” she noted, not unkindly.

“What makes you say that?” he asked defensively.

“I saw those little chef’s hats you bought to go on the ends of the turkey legs,” she replied. “I also found the family’s Pilgrim costumes-which I, incidentally, refuse to wear-hidden in the sewing room.”

“Oh.”

“It looks to me like everything is prepared,” she continued. “You and John Robert have done a wonderful job. Take the day off. Go see Eugene. You haven’t been up there in a couple of days. Check on him, and renew his invitation for dinner. Ask Wormy to come, too.”

“Well, I don’t know,” he began. “I have some baking to do, and-”

“I’ll do the baking,” Maggie interrupted. “Eudora and Carlisle will be in from Atlanta later today, and she’ll want to help. Now go. Pick up some wine.” She pecked his cheek and shoved him out the kitchen door.

He took a slow drive through town before heading up to Eugene’s. In truth, there was very little left to do, and he was glad for the day off. Obsession is hard work and can only be performed at full speed for short periods of time. It was early in the day, and he stopped at the Judge Not That Ye Be Not Breakfast Anytime Drive-In for a bite. He sat down at the empty counter hearing the clatter in the kitchen as Hoghead prepared the lunch special. A.J. hoped it was chili-mac.

“What’s for lunch?” he hollered. Through the round window in the swinging door, he could see Hog slam down a large baking pan.

“A.J., how are you doing?” Hoghead asked breathlessly as he whisked through the door. “I didn’t hear you come in. We’re having turkey pie.” Turkey pie. A.J. didn’t really care for the turkey pie at the drive-in. He had viewed its preparation on one occasion and couldn’t get past the fact that the turkey had come in a large can marked Turkey, One.

“How about a cheeseburger?” A.J. asked.

“Comin’ right up,” Hoghead huffed. A.J. watched as the old cook worked the grill. He was a maestro at the short order, his moves graceful yet economical. The preparation of food was Hoghead’s dance, his Sistine Ceiling. In a little more than no time at all, the steaming plate was before A.J. Hog scooped out a bowl of turkey pie for himself and sat down next to his customer. They ate their first few bites in a shared, comfortable silence.

“Are you still bringing your Swedish meatballs?” A.J. asked. He had requested the restaurateur to bring his famous appetizer to the Thanksgiving feast. Hoghead claimed to have obtained the recipe from a genuine Swedish girl while on shore leave in Hong Kong back in ’53. No one knew why a Swedish meatball chef was with Hoghead in Hong Kong in 1953, but the tidbits were tasty, and A.J. thought it best not to pry.

“They are soaking in the sauce while we speak,” Hoghead said proudly. He blew on a spoonful of the turkey pie. A.J. figured the hotter the better, in case the Turkey, One, had been in the can too long. Idly, he wondered if there were any cans in the back marked Meatballs, Swedish. He hoped not, but seldom was anything as it seemed. He finished his burger and was sipping his coffee when the bell at the front door tinkled. In walked Truth Hannassey. She clipped across the diner and sat on the stool next to A.J. Then she looked at him and smiled. Hoghead jumped up and cleared his plate.

“Yes, ma’am. What can I get you?” he asked.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she replied pleasantly. “What’s good?”

“Try the turkey pie,” A.J. advised her. “It’s one of Hoghead’s specialties.” Hoghead beamed. He loved to hear his efforts applauded.

“Turkey pie sounds good. And maybe a glass of tea?” Hoghead set to. “I need to talk to you,” she said to A.J. “Would you mind if we sat at a booth? My skirt is a little short for this stool.” A.J. had, in spite of himself, noticed that it was. The glance had been instinctive, an involuntary reaction involving the optical nerve that runs from the eyes to the penis without making any stops at the brain.